There's No Such Thing as Normal
by onewealthyhobo
Summary: Now I really get it. The kid ain't normal. 'Daddy' can't leave the kid with someone. They'd find out, they'd hurt him, they'd call someone to take him away, open him up and see what's inside. TV says it's bullshit,I know better. Slash
1. Prologue

Edit: fixed a few things. Grammar, spelling, and the little details that made me cringe

Not abandoned, just taking a long time to get going

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Prologue – What's a bar like you doing in a guy like this?

The bar is on the very ass crack of civilization. Stinks of piss, sweaty ass, and stale beer, but that's okay. It's my kind of place. Any where I can make a quick buck and have some cheap brews is good enough for me. The sorry suckers here hit a little harder than other places. This is lumber jack territory and they know how to throw a decent punch, they can take some too, but they still go down. It just takes a little longer and they fall a little harder. I have an unfair advantage, I know, but they don't and that's fine by me. I feel no regret as the last bub's nose crunches under my fist and he drops, out like a light. If he knew, if they all knew what I was I'd get a stomach full of lead before I could even snub out my cigar. Not like that'll kill me, but getting shot hurts like a bitch and I'm running low on shirts.

His buddies come in and drag the poor bastard out. The ringleader's spouting out shit but I don't listen. I turn and take a puff from my smoldering cigar waiting for me at the edge of the cage like an old friend, the taste helps wash out the stink of blood and sweat. The guy's crooked teeth had cut open my knuckles but it's already closed up before he had even dropped. I run my finger over the smooth skin. I'd be nothing but scar tissue if weren't for this…. Curse…. Gift? Whatever you wanna call it, it's damn handy most days. Must suck sitting around waiting for a smashed in face to heal.

The bell rings and it's time for another sorry sap to get his ass handed to him on a silver platter. I take one last inhale and turn, blowing out smoke as I seize the other guy up. The bub's shirt is off and his stomach is flat and chest defined, outta place with these beer bellied hill billies. He actually looks smart since he's sober and seizing me up too instead of throwing punches like a wild animal. Probably ain't a native then. And damn handsome too. Usually it don't matter to me what my punching bag looks like, but this town must be drinkin' ugly juice cause not even the ladies are close to decent lookin'. I'm a man who appreciates beauty and around here with every lumber jack lookin' like Sasquatch wearing plaid and every waitress lookin' like Sasquatch wearing makeup, the man looks like a damn angel.

The fluorescent lights ain't flattering to no one but he manages to look like a fuckin' swimsuit model under it. The lights shine off messy hair that look like a product of a really good fuck, all wild and black and glossy. Straight nose, strong jaw, full lips and the damn greenest eyes I've ever seen. Not the kinda muddied changes-colors-whenever-I-feel-like-it hazel green but impossible green-as-fuckin'-EMERALDS-green. I promise myself now to avoid hitting his face cause it seems almost a sin to blacken eyes that mesmerizin'.

Mr. Swimsuit crouches down low and takes a stance that shows he knows what the hell he's doing. He means business. Maybe he'll make work for the win for once. I take my stance and we start circlin' each other. Them green eyes are on me, watchin' my every move, he's taken his time, thinkin', plannin', strategizin'. I ain't a patient man so I throw the first punch aimed at that taut stomach. He dodges easy. It ain't my hardest or quickest but it still makes me grin. I can see in his eyes that he knows that I'm goin' easy on him. Then the fight really starts.

He hits fast and hard and smart, keepin' his distance and then goin' in for places that he knows will hurt. It does fuckin' hurt. I'm a little impressed. It's obvious this man had trainin'. Somethin' about the way he holds himself says military, but I don't see any dog tags or ink on his skin that says so. There are scars on him. All over him in fact, Swimsuit has seen some real action.

If this were a fair fight, and I didn't have the hardest bones in the world and didn't heal every hit he gave me, he just might have won this. But I do. He knows he should be at least wearing me down but I'm still on my feet shrugging it off like his punches like they're nothing but annoying flies.

His panting now, sweat pouring off of him, brusies already bloomin' on his stomach and chest. His hits get cheaper. He goes for the throat, kidneys, stomach, gonads, pressure points, the weak spots near the arm pits and groin. I block most. Some get through. Got me straight on the artery on the inside of my thigh. Whole leg goes numb. Hurts but I ain't pissed. He's startin' to look desperate. Not desperate just to win for pride's sake, but desperate cause there's more ridin' on this fight that losin' ain't an option. I knock him down a few times. The bastard is stubborn and spring rights back up. His nose is bleeding and his lip is split, but there's determination burning in those emerald green eyes.

I could end this real quick if I wanted to, I could break a bone real easy, knock him in the throat and make him stay down. I don't. I'm curious. He needs cash fast. Were loan sharks breathing down his neck, threatenin' to mess up that pretty face if he didn't pay up? Or maybe he's laid off and they're taking back the house? Or what if dear old grandma needs an operation but insurance won't put out? Could be any of 'em, and I've heard all of 'em sobbed at me after the fight's over, the sad bub beggin' for the money I won. Tough luck. The money keeps me comfortable, keeps my truck running and food in my stomach. I can't die from starvation or exposure, but it's fuckin' hell goin' hungry and cold in the night. They're humans, normal, they have other options. I don't.

I need to end this fight. The guy is hot but a pretty face won't make me give up the cash. At least he gave me a good run. Hell, I might even buy him a beer if he ain't too bitter. A good fist to the stomach should do it, knock out all his air. He's already swayin' on his feet from exhaustion, green eyes goin' a little hazy and punches getting' sloppier.

I pull back a fist. The crowd is shouting, screamin', cursing. The chain of the cage rattling, a bottle shatters somewhere. In all that, I hear a tiny little voice yelling, "KICK HIS ASS DADDY!"

Out of the corner of my eye I see a little tyke up against the cage, tiny fingers clutchin' the chain link. A bright orange beanie cap swallows up his head, almost fallin' over the same impossible emerald green eyes. The fuck?

'Daddy' sees the shot and takes it. He kicks me in the face, hard. Gets me in the jaw, snapping it shut. My teeth take off a chunk of my tongue. I go down, mouth filling up with blood.

That explains why the fucker wouldn't stay down. No parent with a house and a steady job would ever bring their kid to a bar, at least I hope not. I ain't no professional at parenting but I'm damn sure that bars are pretty high on the list of 'Don't bring your kids,' right up there with gun ranges and pedophile therapy sessions. So 'Daddy' has no house, no job, and no one to look after the kid. And oh yeah, he's hard on cash.

I spit out another blood stain on the dirty floor. The crowd is going fuckin' ape shit, and so is the kid. He's jumping all around like he just won a trip to fuckin' Disney Land. He woops and hollers, green eyes shining and... wait. I double take. His eyes turned fuckin' yellow.

I look to 'daddy'. He's swayin', barely keeping on his feet, but he saw too. He saw and he swallows hard. His hand brushes over his brow like he's gonna wipe away the sweat, but then a finger traces his cheek, like a signal. I look back to the kid. It was a signal. The boy grabs his hat and pulls it down over his eyes, hiding them. Hiding like he's scared of someone seeing.

And now I really get it. The kid ain't normal. Whatever he is, he's like me. 'Daddy' can't leave the kid with someone. They'd find out, they'd hurt him, they'd call someone to take him away, open him up and see what's inside. TV says its bullshit, but I remember flashes of needles, green boilin' water, pain, runnin', escapin'. I know better.

'Daddy' has no options. He's takin' care of his kid. Protectin' him. But that takes money.

Money that he needs worse than me.

For the first time in my life I do somethin' I never thought I'd ever do.

I stay down.

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Reviews: Tell me what you like, what you don't like, and what I can improve


	2. Chapter 1

_So that took a painfully long time to write. I'm not gonna apologize because I've already warn you, but I hope you're still reading despite it all.  
_

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__Shackle and Ball

_He let me win. _The thought echoes in my hazy mind like the ring of a graveyard bell as I stumble out of the cage, my whole body screaming in pain. I don't even feel it when the announcer shoves the money into my hands. I can barely curl my fingers to keep it from falling to the filthy floor.

He could have dropped me any moment he wanted to. Hitting him was as effective as hitting a brick wall. Felt like it as well. That kick to his leg should have buckled his knee, should have slowed him down at the very least. It did, for a mere second.

He could have really hurt me. He wore me down so thoroughly I wouldn't have been able to defend myself if he decided to break a bone, fracture a rib, crack open my skull. I was that close to being taken away from Teddy. I'm the only thing that he has left. Without me they'd find him. They'd take him again...

But I can't dwell on it anymore. I rush over to my cub. He's shaking. Despite every muscle screaming in protest I gather him up in my arms and hold him close to my chest. His little arms wrap around my neck and he buries his face directly into a bruise. I ignore it.

He lost control again and he's terrified. "Shhhh, Teddy," I say soothingly as I rub his back and secure the orange cap on his head. He sniffs pitifully. I hold him tighter.

I muster up all energy I have left and carry him to the loo, grabbing my jumper and jacket on the way. I need to clean up, covered in blood and sweat as I am. It's a one room affair, flickering fluorescent lights, mildew sink, cracked mirror, filthy toilet, graffiti on the walls, the only saving grace a lock on the door. It'll do.

I set Teddy upon the counter top of the sink. I hush him softly as I push back the orange cap still over his eyes. His round face scrunches, his eyes shut tight as tears squeeze from the corners.

"Let me see," I command softly.

Teddy opens his eyes. They are ice blue, nearly white around the pupils. It confirms what I already knew. He's scared shite-less.

"Breathe, cub," I say as I wipe a tear away with my thumb. "Remember. Just look into my eyes, breathe, and concentrate."

Teddy wipes his dripping nose with his sleeve and then nods. He takes in a deep breath, his chest rising with it, before letting it out slowly like Hermione and I taught him. He stares into my eyes. Ever so slowly the blue begins to bleed out of his irises as he calms, morphing into light green and then darkening. He goes through every shade until it matches my own emerald green.

"There you go," I praise softly as I hold back my relieved sigh. Some days he cannot control it. He has to wear sunglasses when we're out in public. On those days I tell him to pretend to be blind so that no one would question it. It's too late for that now; everyone knows he was watching the match. Thankfully he maintains the correct shade.

He has more control than a five year old metamorphmagus should have. He can only control his eye color, but that's more than his mother could do at that age. Andromeda told me once that full control does not come until magical maturity, till then the colors change like a mood ring if they do not concentrate.

Lately, all I see is ice blue in Teddy's eyes. And orange, his color for worry.

"Good, Teddy." I reassure him, "You're doing so well." I smile, and then wince as my split lip reopens. It starts bleeding anew. I grimace and wipe the blood away before it starts dribbling down my chin.

Teddy's eyes flash orange for a second before returning to emerald green, if slightly duller. He looks around and finds the paper towel bin. In practiced movements he pulls out a couple of sheets with his tiny hands, turns the faucet on, wets them, squeezes out the excess and then holds it out to me. He's so used to seeing me bloody and beaten it doesn't even frighten him anymore. Now he just tries to take care of me. Twists my heart every time.

I swallow down the emotion in my throat and take the towel. I rub his back in thanks and comfort as I dab away the blood. Together we get me cleaned up. I keep a tube of anti-bacterial ointment in my pocket now instead of a wand. Magic is more dangerous than it's worth, but it's moments like this when I'd kill for the chance to cast a healing charm without detection. But the sting of ointment would have to do. Teddy pulls it out and applies it on all the cuts and bruises that are too painful for me to reach.

I swallow down any sound of pain as I gingerly pull on my shirt, and then go through the torture again as I shrug on my jacket. Orange flashes again in Teddy's eyes. Mindful of my lips, I smile crookedly and chuck his little chin softly.

"Takes more than a hairy behemoth to take your old man down," I say cockily.

That brings out a gape toothed smile from Teddy. "I knew you could beat him," he pipes up, his words whistling slightly through the two missing teeth in the front. He's growing up so fast.

"Hadn't a doubt?" I ask.

"Nuh uh," he answers.

* * *

The bell rings, the cage opens, and he goes directly to his kid. I know his arms are jelly, the muscles abused, pushed to their limits trying to deal me some damage, but he picks the boy up anyway. It's not effortless, his jaws clench through the pain as he hauls the kid up. The little tyke tucks himself against 'daddy's' chest, presses his head straight into an ugly purple bruise blooming on his pectorals. Daddy doesn't even wince.

I get up and crack my neck, pretending that I ain't watching them through the crowd. The fights are done for the night but the audience takes their sweet time leaving. Drunk off their asses, some pissed, most happy. Those are the ones that bet against me. Apparently they don't like me here.

I go back to my corner, fetch my cold cigar and warm beer. I see outta the corner of my eye the kid's shaking. Probably crying, scared shitless that he let it slip. Daddy puts a hand on his son's back and rubs in soothing circles, whispering quiet things to him. His knuckles are bleeding.

I find my shirt and jacket and shrug them on. Three matches and not even a bruise on me, they're too drunk to notice but I gotta cover up just in case. I probably should be more careful about it but whatever they can do won't last. Shoot me, stab me, burn me, I'll be up again seconds later.

But not him. Not daddy and his little kid with eyes that change color. If anyone else had seen…

I roll my tongue in my mouth and feel that it's already healed. Feels nasty in there. Copper tang, grit along my teeth, a sting like rust in the back of my throat. I feel it leaking into my stomach, sand and iron and blood, dripping heavy in the empty pit of my gut. I guzzle down the rest of my beer. It doesn't help much.

I get outta the cage and daddy and son are gone from the crowd. Good. Take the money and go. Smart men don't linger in places like these.

The fight cage is in the basement, down some noisy steps, behind a door that says _Employees Only_. Twenty bucks entrance fee, and a secret fucking password to get in. Had a fifty when I went through. Thought to make some money, but Daddy left with the 2,000 dollar pot. He'll need it. Got four cigars and some thirty bucks left coming out. I go to the bar to see if it's enough to get the copper rust out of my mouth.

I pick my spot and get ready for a long night. The counter is wet, the bar stool rickety like it'll give out any second, the peanut bowl has more shell than peanuts, all of it stale. Noise, clinking bottles, smacking lips, talking, laughing, cursing, coughs, wheezing, snorting and spitting. Stinks like an old bar always does. Smoke, piss, and sweat, subtle hint of puke to bring it all together.

It's my kind of place. It ain't any sort of home, but I'm comfortable here. There ain't too many places that wouldn't give me a second glance.

First beer don't do much. Course it doesn't. Never did. Whatever gift that heals the bumps and boo boos gets rid of the buzz seconds after I chug one down. I don't get hangovers, but I don't get drunk either. Pointless if you think about it. Can't drink the troubles away and then focus on the pain the next day. No, I'm conscious through all of it, aware of every fucking second.

But what the hell, I drink it anyway.

I'm five beers in when I see him. He shouldn't be here. Shoulda taken the money and gone the second it was in his hand, but there he is walking through this shit hole, kid at his side clutching his hand. What the fuck are you doing bub?

He goes to the bar, talks to the grizzly sunovabitch behind it. He cleaned up some. Pulled on a black sweater and a hunter's jacket two sizes too big for him. Swallows him whole, hides the tone body underneath as well as the hand gun tucked into his waist band. Musta had a first aid kit tucked in there too. He slapped on a butterfly stitch for his lip, a bandage on a purpling cheek bone, wraps around his bloodied knuckles.

He looks like shit, but he's prepared.

"Alright, so I have the money," he tells the bartender. They stand twenty feet from me but I can hear him perfectly. Nice voice. Accented. British, probably., Young, tired but commanding. "Could you call a tow truck now? And a taxi?"

"Sorry, but south roads closed," bartender wheezes. "Only town near here is bunkered for the storm coming their way. You ain't getting a tow till tomorrow, if they don't get hit too bad."

His shoulders stiffen, jaw clenches. "What do you mean closed?" he hisses quietly through his teeth. "We can't stay here! Is there no one that can pick us up?"

Little kid's staring at me as the adults talk. His eyes are emerald like daddy's again, peeking under that bright orange knit cap, red and puffy around the edges. I glance at him sideways and he shuffles back, hides behind daddy's legs. Can't tell if he's shy or scared, but it's kinda cute.

It's scary how tiny he is. His large hat and marshmallow winter jacket swallow him up like protective padding. Kid can't even put his arms down at his sides, so bundled up all you see is his little round face. If he fell over he'd probably bounce right back up. He couldn't be more than four. Five maybe.

He peeks around daddy's legs again at me. Little nose wiggles as he sniffs the air. He closes his eyes and sniffs harder. Well shit, the tyke is scenting me out that far away. Don't know how he can through the stink of the place.

"No one's driving through the pass tonight, son, and it ain't nothing for miles going north," bartender says with a shrug, "can't tell ya any more than that."

Daddy's fist clenches like he wants to grab the fucker by his greasy beard and smash his face into the bar counter. At least that's what I'd wanna do in his place. "Is there anyone here who can patch up my car at least?" he asks instead.

The bartender snorts, "Your engine is completely shot, son. You might as well buy a new car."

"You told me it was the radiator!" Daddy hisses again, keeping his voice low.

"Well now I'm telling you it's the engine," bartender growls right back. "Either way, that dog ain't gonna run."

This time I'm sure he's gonna do it, knock the fucker's teeth out and shatter his nose, but the tyke tugs at his hand and all his frustration disappears like a click of a switch as he looks down at his kid. "Daddy, m'hungry," he mumbles so quiet I barely hear.

Daddy gives him a strained smile and places a hand on the tyke's head, the kid leans against his leg. They're dead tired, the both of them. The kid is holding up daddy just as much as daddy is holding up the kid.

"Tell me you serve meals, at least," daddy says, deflated.

"Yeah," bartender grumbles, "Got burgers and fries. Nothing fancier than that."

He orders. The booths are already taken by the drunk and loud so he waits at the bar. He hauls up his kid with a small groan and sets him on a stool. Daddy slumps onto his own seat, keeping a hand on the boy's back like he's afraid someone'll take him.

It's a valid fear.

Kid rubs tiredly at his eye and looks over to me again. Don't know what he's thinking, but he don't look scared of me. He looks around the room quickly and then focuses back on me. He does it so fast no one woulda seen it if they hadn't been looking right at him. He blinks and his eyes are black like mine. Blinks again, back to emerald green.

I can't help but smile.

He smiles a gape toothed smile back. Cocky kid.

Yeah, I know your secret, tyke. It's safe with me. Question is, do you know mine?

Daddy leans over after finally noticing his kid's staring at me. Whispers something I can't hear. Kid turns his head and whispers something back in Daddy's ear. The original pair of emeralds looks at me over the kid's orange head, a thousand years older and a hundred times sharper.

People shouldn't have eyes like that. They're fucking cat eyes. Faceted and unreadable. Makes you nervous cause you don't know if the thing's gonna attack your ass or decide that you ain't worth it. Only thing you know is that it don't trust you, and if you back it into a corner it will go right for the jugular.

I have no doubt that's what he'd do if I messed with his kid.

Waitress comes over with the food and his eyes turn away. "You know it's impolite to stare," he says to the tyke and brings the plate closer for the kid to reach. Just one plate piled with greasy fries and a greasy burger, lettuce, tomato, and pickle on the side. Tyke takes the pickle first while daddy dabs the extra grease with a napkin.

"Are we stuck here, daddy?" tyke asks and takes a loud bite.

"Just a little while," daddy answers, his hand resting on the boy's back again, eyes distant as he tries to figure shit out.

"Not too long, please," the boy says, "it smells like a potty here."

Daddy cracks a smile at that. It turns crooked as the butterfly stitch stretches, but the emeralds get soft and warm for just a second. "I'll do my best," he promises.

The smile isn't enough to get rid of the frown lines around his mouth. The wrinkles on his forehead are carved in deep, the worry creasing his eyes been there too long to smooth out. He's too young to look that old. Handsome face like that deserves a wife and a house, picket fence and a dog, his kid tucked away in a race car bed, safe and sound instead of eating soggy fries at a shit hole bar up in the Rocky's.

The copper taste gets worse in my mouth, stomach heavy like a lead weight dropped in there.

I roll the beer bottle in my hands and don't think about how much gas is in my tank. I don't think about how far north to go to find a decent motel. I don't think about the extra space in my truck that could fit a man and a half if I just push aside the useless crap piled up in there. No, I don't think about it. It's none of my damn business. I already gave up the prize money, anything more than that and I'd be _involved._

Don't ever get involved in other people's shit; that's rule number fucking one. When you're involved you get invested, when you're invested you start to care, when you start to care they latch on you like a ball and chain and drag you down the river of responsibility.

I've drowned once before. Ain't nothing I wanna repeat.

I pull out a cigar and light up. When booze fails, nicotine wins out. The buzz lasts longer, tastes a thousand times better than the cheap shit served here. Breathe in deep, rolls like fog in the back of the throat, slow exhale out and the world turns into nothing but smoke.

Only lasts for a second. The smoke turns to wisps and the world comes roaring back, loud and shitty as ever. And the first thing I see is the vultures circling around daddy and his son.

Ain't no surprise. 2,000 big ones in his pocket, bloodied and bruised, and a kid to watch over, daddy is nothing but easy pickings to them.

There's two of them (scum always travel in packs), big and fat and ugly like all the rest of the hillbilly population, and that was before I finished beating their asses. I recognize the one with the smashed in face, courtesy of yours truly. It's an improvement.

They waddle up from behind, but daddy see's em coming. He gets up, turns to face them, stands between them and his kid. Tyke stops eating and turns, wide eyed and aware that shit is about to go down.

"That fight was rigged," Scumbag accuses and gets up close, trying to intimidate. Don't work too well with that beer belly in the way.

"I don't know what you're talking about," daddy says, face neutral, hands by his sides. No doubt considering that handgun he's packing.

Pancake Face steps up, poking a sausage finger into daddy's chest. "Don't give us that shit, we know it was rigged," he grunts, his words whistling through his crooked nose.

Daddy brushes his hand away all cool and calm, "Do you have proof?"

Pancake Face turns his sausage finger at me, "That guy beat three of us easy, but you come in and knock him down like it was nothing," he spits a glob on the dirty floor, "Smells like bullshit!"

Daddy raises his brow. Like Pancake Face could smell anything through that nose, and as I recall, fighting daddy wasn't '_nothing'. _Had we been on fair footing I'm pretty sure he would have had me. Sure he's smaller but he's quicker. He knew exactly where to hit to bring a bigger man down.

Daddy could take on Pancake Face no problem in fact, but with Pancake Face and Scumbag both ganging up on him with no guarantee that they'll play nice, even I don't wanna place my bet.

"I have never met that man before in my life," daddy says smoothly, a hand flexing, itching for that gun.

"Bullshit! We want our money," Scumbag says and grabs the front of daddy's sweater.

Pancake face opens his mouth to add something, probably a clever line like 'yeah' or 'or else' but daddy don't let him get that far. Second the hand is on him, daddy grabs Scumbag's wrist, presses on the funny pressure point to release his grip, then twists it nearly 180 and pushes hard. Arms aren't supposed to bend that way. It snaps like a twig with a wet crack.

Most of the bar don't hear the bone break, but all heads turn when Scumbag starts squealing like a pig just got castrated.

"SONUVABITCH!" he screams, ugly mug turning an uglier red as he clutches at his forearm, hanging limp at the wrong angle. "YOU BROKE MY FUCKIN' ARM!"

Well no shit.

"MOTHER FUCKER!" Pancake Face yells and charges at daddy instead of taking the hint and running the other way like a smart man should. Daddy don't move even though the bub has 200 lbs on him. Tyke's right behind him, standing up on the stool with nowhere to run. Gotta stay between the boy and the bad guy, gotta protect his son.

Pancake face throws a punch, daddy pushes it aside with the palm of his hand, takes a step forward, raises an elbow and lets momentum do the job as the dumbass smashes his face against it, shattering his already broken nose. He stumbles back howling, blood gushing everywhere.

As he stumbles back, Scumbag apparently gets over his broken arm and pulls out a knife with his good hand. He swipes at daddy with a deadly flash of steel. Someone screams then. When violence is the bread and butter of the establishment, shit don't get real until someone pulls out a weapon

Daddy catches the wrist with both hands. Stops the swing almost too late, angle awkward, the tip rips his hunter's jacket. Scumbag is bigger and stronger despite the busted arm, pain and adrenaline and rage can make anyone superman for a coupla' minutes. They struggle.

Daddy tries to veer them to the side, away from his kid. Fucker's stubborn, only shifts some steps away, still too close to the tyke. One careless slash his way and the kid is gone. I get on my feet.

This ain't nothing like the movies. It ain't smooth, it ain't choreographed, it don't slow down and give you twenty angles so you can see what's happening in hi-def cinematic detail.

Fights, real fights, when someone comes after you ready to end your life anyway they can and you're left with the choice of killing him or die, are dirty, ugly things you don't wanna watch. For someone's never seen one before they get paralyzed by it. There ain't no humanity in it, ain't no dazzling combo moves and back flipping martial arts. Ain't no good guys or bad guys or glorious victory. It's all snarling, bared teeth and hate-burning eyes. It's savage instinct, keep on _ripping punching stabbing_ till the other one stops moving.

Normal people get sick after seeing it.

No one moves as Scumbag forces the knife closer, daddy stopping it inches from his jugular, whole place frozen as they realize someone's about to fucking die. No one moves except me, and the brave little tyke. It takes me eight steps to get across the room to them. By step three, the tyke gets up on the bar counter. By step four, he picks up a brandy bottle. He lifts it above his tiny head by step five. By step six, it comes smashing down on Scumbag's head with all the strength the kid has in his little body.

It doesn't shatter, but it stuns the fucker enough for daddy to push him off. He shoves hard and punches the asshole in the face, the blade clatters to the floor and slides under a table. Scumbag goes stumbling back, wind milling his arms to keep from falling on his ass. He falls on it anyway, but not before accidentally smacking the tyke with the back of his hand, knocking off the neon orange cap from his head.

Someone presses pause on the universe.

On the sticky bar countertop stands a little boy in a winter coat, with silver white hair shining in the smoky light, wide shocked ice blue eyes, and puppy dog ears.

Honest to fucking god floppy, furry, twitchy little dog ears that belong on a German shepherd, but were instead stuck on the tyke's head. They pin back as he stares wide eyed at the dead silent bar.

Suddenly, the universe is on fast forward.

Someone screams, chairs scrap, people scramble to get away from the kid as if he were fucking radioactive.

And then, _Cha-Chink. _

I move without thinking.

* * *

It took all of three seconds for the bartender to pull out his shot gun, cock it, and point it straight at Teddy.

He did not reach for it when three full grown men, two of them drunk out of their minds and one of those drunkards carrying a knife, had begun a brawl in his bar. No, he waited to pull it out on a child. My child. I stop breathing.

I want to kill him. I want to find that knife and stick it into his gullet, split him navel to chin. I want to pull the gun out of my waist and plant a hole between his eyes. If I had enough bullets I would shoot everyone in this god forsaken hellhole. I would walk through this whole nation, killing anyone who dared look at my Teddy the way they were looking at him now. As if he was an abomination. As if he was a freak.

But I can't because he has the barrel pointed at Teddy's head with the finger on the trigger, and I'm too far away to protect him. I'm too fucking far away.

But then that man steps in, that hairy behemoth who mercifully threw the fight, who Teddy claimed didn't smell quite normal. Who I knew could be nothing but a mutant.

It all happens before my frozen heart can take another beat.

A flash of steel and suddenly the gun falls apart in his hands. Pieces of barrel sliced like paper fall to the ground with heavy clunks, followed by the tinkling of gunpowder, the shot cut clean through.

He has Teddy wrapped in one massive arm, his body turned so he is between my cub and the sliced gun. Had it gone off, he would have taken buckshot full in the chest. His other arm is extended, muscles straining as he shoves knives…No, claws. Blade-like claws jutting from between his knuckles, held to the bartender's throat.

"HE'S A KID!" he growls, physically growls. His words snarled through his teeth so enraged he can barely form them. "A fuckin' _**BABY**_ you dirtbag!"

Teddy grips at his shirt, his eyes so wide and terrified the irises are pure white. He's shaking, but then, so is the bartender.

The man growls something else but I do not hear it. My feet move, my arms reach out and I take Teddy from him, he lets me, he doesn't even seem to notice as his eyes bore unwaveringly on the old man.

Teddy wraps himself around me, little arms and legs gripping tight. "Daddy," he whimpers.

"Shh cub, I'm here," I whisper. He's in my arms, his weight on my hips and chest but I can't feel anything at all, my body achingly numb. I squeeze him tighter to convince myself he's there, to convince myself that I can feel him breathing, feel his warmth against me. He presses his head against my neck and I feel the brush of his soft hair, the wetness of his tears, they sear into me and finally I know he's safe. I take my first breath and nearly choke on it. My heart starts beating again, each thud breaking through the black ice that incased it, the shards of it imbedding into my chest cavity like shrapnel. It's terror of an unimaginable degree.

Voldermort had never been this terrifying.

My knees want to collapse on me, to let me come undone on the filthy floor and cry into Teddy's chest, wailing wretched gratitude and begging for redemption I'll never deserve. But I cannot. I suffocate the weakness, wrestle the emotion down into a dark hole and lock it away behind steel doors. I can fall apart when Teddy is safe, but not now. Not now.

We should have never come here. We need to leave.

My eyes turn to the man who had saved my son. He is our only way out.

* * *

He drops the useless stock and trigger, his hands shaking like a crack head in withdrawal. His eyes are bulging so far out of their sockets I can count the little red veins. He doesn't piss his pants but he's fucking close.

An inch more and he's dead. He knows it, everyone in the bar knows it. No one can stop me. Nobody fucking tries. I wanna tear him apart, cut him piece by piece till he's nothing but red chunks on the floor, just hunks of bloody meat for the wolves to pick at.

But then little fingers tug at my shirt, clutching at me for dear life. It pulls me back from that small inch. The boy's watching me, his eyes white except for two giant black pupils and a ring of frozen blue around them. They're fuckin' huge in his tiny face. How more fucked up would he be if he saw me do what I wanted to do? How many more nightmares does he need after this?

Daddy comes and rescues him from me, rips him away and makes a sound like a sob as he clutches at his kid. The tyke starts crying then. It's quiet. He's not wailing, not screaming like a scared kid should, just whimpering into daddy's chest, shaking and quiet.

"Shh cub, I'm here," daddy whispers. "I-it's okay. You're okay."

He's lying. I don't know if he's saying it to the kid or himself, but he's lying and he knows it. But people cling to those kinda lies when they're scared shitless and can't do anything about it.

The dirtbag swallows. My claws cut him as his Adam's apple bobs, three little trickles of red rolling down his hairy throat.

The kid saved his life. Ironic as shit, but he did. I can't run the bastard through in front of them, can't let the boy see a man die in front of him, because of him. But now that we're here, I can't step back. I can't let go that this fucker woulda killed a baby just for having some dog ears on him.

They call this an impasse. I call it fucking frustrating.

"W-we need to go," daddy says in a quiet voice. I look at him through the corner of my eye and he's staring back at me, eyes wide and glassy. "We can't stay here."

Then I get it. I'm his way out. I'm his _only_ way out. No one else around here will help him, they'd kill him before they helped him. I feel the shackle circling around my ankle, but it's too late now. I can't leave them here. I'm fucking involved now.

"My truck's outside," I grunt, the words hard to form.

Daddy nods. Kid sobbing in his arms, he makes his way to the door. I look back to the bartender, his eyes are screw shut like he's praying for salvation. It's your fucking lucky day, bub. I pull back. No one even dares to breath. The claws go in, but they're still scared. No one will follow us.

I go to daddy's side and open the door for him. We go out into the cold together.

* * *

Tips for reviews: tell me what you liked, what you don't like, and how I can improve.


	3. Chapter 2

I told you it wasn't abandoned, just going very, very slowly.

Thank you again for reading, and waiting so patiently. It really amazes me that you guys still want to read this after so long

* * *

The Moon sees Me

They fit in the passenger seat like I thought they would. The tyke's sits on daddy's lap, wrapped in a blanket and held so tight in daddy's arms I can't even see his little orange cap. We could crash straight into a tree and daddy wouldn't let go of him. Nothing could make him let go.

Without their car, all their worldly possession came down to just one suitcase and two backpacks, big one for daddy, small one for the kid, and a cooler to keep the snacks. It barely takes up any room in the back, but the truck's never felt fuller.

No, not full. That's the wrong word. Suffocating is what I meant.

The kid is crying, but not really. He's not screaming and wailing like a kid should after having a gun pointed at his head. He's just…shaking. Shaking and sniffling and barely making a sound. Choking it down, because somewhere he learned that crying out would only bring more pain and more monsters.

But daddy's worse. A hundred times worse. He is absolutely silent. But the look on his face, the look in his eyes…like he wasn't even human. Like everything was shut off, every feeling and emotion gone, frozen. His eyes just stare out into the black as he clutches his kid.

Because this isn't the first time this has happened. I can see it in his eyes, in the way he clutches at the kid. Someone has hurt his baby before, and he's trying so goddamn hard to keep it from happening again, but the world isn't fucking fair, and karma is a fucking joke, and no one is answering his prays.

No one is even listening.

The fear just rolls off the kid like a stink, fills up the cab, gets into the vents and blows it back at me in hot gusts of air. It makes me itch, makes me want to turn back around, race back to the bar and slit the bartender's throat and bleed him dry, pummel those shit-faced scumbags with my fists till they're nothing but red jelly and bits of bone smeared across the floor. Because that would be better than sitting here, listening to this tiny family trying to keep from falling apart.

The next town over is 200 miles, but on mountain range with slush on the roads it might take all night to get there, especially if that blizzard decides to follow after us. Just a whole lot of black ahead, like it stretches on to forever.

Finally daddy takes a breath. It's one of those deep, rattling breaths when the lungs remember what to do after the gulping pain of getting all the air punched out passes. It's probably the first good one he's taken since leaving the bar. He takes it in, holds it, lets it out, and all of the fear and desperation just seem to exhale out of him.

And then, he sings.

"_I see the moon, the moon sees me _

_Under the shade of the old oak tree,_

_Please let the light that shines on me_

_Shine on the one I love._

_Over the mountains, over the sea,_

_Back where my heart is longing to be,_

_Please let the light that shines on me,_

_Shine on the one I love."_

It's low, quiet, soothing, strong. Every word full of all the devotion and love of a father. I can see him standing in a room with a crib, the moon light shining on him and the small bundle wrapped in his arms, singing this song while he rocks his new born baby to sleep. He must have been so proud, back when life was good and predictable, stable, normal, safe. Just a brand new daddy, eager to bring life into this fucked up world, hoping for the best despite it all.

At what moment did he learn that his bundle of joy wasn't like the rest? When, exactly, did he realize his son wasn't going to have the life he hoped for him? And just where was the wife? Did she run out on them when she discovered she gave birth to an abomination? Did she abandon them because she couldn't handle that her baby was a mutant? How long has daddy been on his own?

And just how many times has he sung this lullaby to his kid to quiet the tears?

Because it works. The little tyke slowly stops shaking, stops sniffling. Like a dial turning down, he goes quiet, and then the boy just passes out against his daddy, exhausted to the bone. Daddy sings the song a few times more just to make sure, but the kid is out cold. He kisses the tyke's head, and then leans back in his seat.

He looks ready to drop too.

* * *

The song isn't even mine. No one ever sang it to me. I only heard it once long ago on a quiet night when Dudley was sick, and Aunt Petunia had managed to carry him all the way down stairs to the kitchen. She gave him a cookie, sat him on her lap and sang this lullaby to him to quiet his pains. In my cupboard I could barely hear it, but those soft words held so much love that a starved boy such as I could not help but strain against the wooden door just to catch a piece of it.

Aunt Petunia loved my cousin more than anything in the world, and yet she could not spare an ounce of it for me. I had never fully understood the reasons why until Andromeda had set little Theodore in my arms. All my life I had desperately searched for that kind of love and I found it the moment when tawny brown hair turned black, amber eyes flashed green and cherub lips smiled at me. He was mine from then on.

Remus and Tonks were my friends, they died as heroes, but a part of me could never forgive them for leaving Theodore the way that they had. No battle, no war, nothing should have meant more to them than protecting their child. They should have taken him and run as far as they could, but they hadn't. Now all Teddy had to remember them by were paltry medals of honour and the stories of a heart broken old woman.

I was going to give Theodore everything that I never had. I was going to ensure he would want for nothing. What a bang up job I'm doing.

But at least he knows that I love him and that I would protect him with my life.

I sing him the lullaby, and like always, he falls asleep.

He lays heavy against me, his warmth seeps into my aching chest. It still feels like ice in there, the lingering terror slowly melts like dripping icicles and the drops roll down my spine to pool in my stomach. It's sour, acrid, all of it tainted and bitter and black, but the rhythm of Teddy's breathing keeps me from drowning in it. My cub is alive, and that is all that matters.

The minutes pass. The vents billow hot air. The cab warms, but the windows stay frosted and the world is dark and cold outside. I am exhausted.

My eyes slip tiredly over to our savior. He was a beast in the ring, the harsh fluorescent lights and the thrill of the fight had made him look feral and bloodthirsty, but here the soft glow of the dashboard softened the sharpness of his features. There is something like Alastor Moody about him, in the alertness of his eyes and the heaviness of his brows, but there is also something like Sirius Black, about his wild hair and his mouth. Though he is frowning, the shape of his lips hints at sensuality.

He is a handsome man, I realize, like a knife shaped and sharpened by the trials of his life. The glint of dog tags nestled in his collarbone gives credence to my analogy.

But the word 'savior' is perhaps a little unfair. He is just a mutant that happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. It was our luck that there was a shred of decency left in him. Not all mutants would have stuck out their necks for others of their kind. It wasn't wise to play the hero when you're fighting to survive as well.

But he helped when he did not have to. He threw the fight, and defended my cub without a single thing promised to him in return. He would have killed those men for my cub. That did not mean he was a good man, or that he was trustworthy, or that he would help us again. But I was indebted to him all the same.

* * *

"Harry," he murmurs, out of nowhere.

I look to him, and those emeralds are looking straight at me, sunken in his haggard face but glinting bright with a light all on their own. He could be a mutant with eyes like that; it's hard to look away from them. They're hypnotizing.

"My name is Harry," he introduces, voice tired but no longer broken. "And this is my son, Teddy."

"Logan," I grunt back.

Harry and Teddy. He called the tyke something else in the bar, he called him cub. Teddy cub. It's cute and it fits. But Harry. Harry doesn't fit him at all.

Harry's of the world are sagging, pink faced men with more hair on their balls than on their heads. They wear clip-on ties to work, 9 to 5 sitting in grey cubicles, click away on a grey screens, drive grey cars, come home to a greying wives, watch the Sunday game, drink light beers, and go fishing on the weekends.

They are normal men just living the American dream, unremarkable and forgettable.

There is nothing forgettable about this man. With a face of a fallen angel, and eyes that shine like jewels, he should have a timeless name, lyrical, and dark.

"Is Harry short for something?" I ask.

Suddenly he smiles. A flash of white teeth and a soft snort of laughter. "No," he says, "Just Harry."

Just Harry. What a shame.

It starts to snow outside, I turn on the windshield wipers.

"Where you headed?" I ask, because they had to be headed somewhere, to get stuck in the middle of nowhere.

"There's a safe haven just a little past Fort Nelson," Harry answers. "Do you know of it?"

"No, I don't." I don't keep track of mutant safe houses, don't need to with my abilities. I've come across a few kids looking for them and sent them in the right direction if I could, but Fort Nelson was a three days drive from here and it was gonna be a long haul for Harry and Teddy without a car.

Harry knows it, but it don't show on his face. There's no such thing as a safe place when you're a mutant, but when you're in a desert it don't matter if the water you see is a mirage, you keep on walking because there's nothing else you can do other than to lay down and die.

Harry goes quiet. I look over but he ain't asleep, just staring out ahead into the blackness. Vigilant daddy, can't close his eye for a second in case I turn out to be a psycho killer. I don't blame him, there's some dangerous people out on the road, but fuck did he look like shit. I really did him one over.

We drive on. It takes two hours before the exit sign for food and lodging pop up, glowing bright green and beautiful on the side of the road. The dashboard reads nearly two in the morning, but it felt a lot later than that. It's been a long night for all of us.

It's a small town but it takes us another hour and a half to find a motel with a vacancy. Like a champ Harry don't shut his eyes once.

He comes in with me to get the room, the sleeping Cub tucked against his chest like a baby koala. The old bat behind the counter gives us a dirty look but Harry pretends he don't see it.

"One room," he says before I can open my mouth.

"Would that be one bed or two?" the crone asks, her mouth so pinched I don't know how she could even pry it open to talk.

"Two," he says, so tired he don't even give a fuck.

She bangs around for the key while Harry shifts Teddy in his to try and reach his wallet.

I pull out my own. "Here, I got this," I say.

Harry gives me a look. I know if he weren't seconds away from dropping he would have refused. I gave him too much already, done more than he ever expected. He owed me, and he didn't have much to pay me back.

Whatever. I didn't need anything from him.

* * *

I don't try to stop Logan as he lays down the money on the counter. I needed every cent to afford our way to Fort Nelson. I doubt I could buy a car with the paltry cash hidden away in my sock, but perhaps it was enough for two bus tickets.

Logan picks up the keys and opens the door for us and I thank him with a nod. I could not even feel my arms anymore, and Teddy was getting heavier by the second. We walk to the room in silence, and he opens the door again.

Cheap motel rooms have become the norm for Teddy and me. Different countries, different states, different cities, different towns, but the motel room always looks the same. Cheap beds, cheap furniture, a television set, a bathroom and a window. But as long as it had running water and warmth, that is all we needed. This one at least did not have visible roaches. We're moving up in the world, Teddy.

Not bothering to turn on the light, I lay him down upon the bed, and pull the boots off his little feet. I feel Logan watching me as I undress Teddy but it does not bother me. I may not know this stranger, but I knew he would not hurt my cub. That is all that matters.

I pull Teddy's arms out of his jacket, his body limp as a ragdoll in his sleep. He seems so tiny without all the layers to protect him, limbs so delicate and fragile that it felt like one hard press would break him. I could have lost him. I almost lost him. It is a realization that has hit me more times than I can barely stand to count. You would think the thrice damned Chosen One would be able keep his own son safe.

I have to restrain myself from placing my hand on his chest to track the rise and fall of his breaths, to keep from counting his heart beats just to make sure.

The orange cap is always the last to come off. The canine ears twitch as they are freed. He's had them for two years now, and no matter how hard he concentrates he cannot make them go away or even change their shape or length. Each German Shepherd ear stand three inches and a half from base to tip, the fur puppy soft and matched the color of his ever shifting hair, soft buttery yellow curls. A good sign then. That shade meant he was calm and fairly happy, and I valiantly hoped no nightmares would plague him tonight.

* * *

The neon glow of the sign filters through the shades, making the room all bars of red and shadows. Harry's hands shake as he undresses his boy. His face is a mess, his body at the edge of collapse, but he takes the time to take care of his 'cub'. I feel like I shouldn't be here, like I'm intruding on this, but it's hard to look away from it.

Teddy's lucky to have a dad like that. There'd be less kids out on the street, if they all had a dad like Harry to watch over them.

The bed creaks as Harry sits on the edge of it, and he turns and looks at me. Emeralds glint in the dim light, tired but the rest is unreadable.

"Thank you," he says, it's heavy in his throat and he means it. Means it with everything he has in him. "Thank you for everything that you've done. There is no…..no possible way I can repay you."

He sighs and runs a hand through his black, messy hair, his shoulders sag, but there is still strength in him. It's there in his green eyes, hard and sharp as a knife. "But I can start by asking you to stay for the night. You paid for the room after all, that bed is yours by all rights," he says as he waves his bandaged hand to the extra bed.

"I would understand if you are not here in the morning, you owe us nothing and I would not expect any more of your generosity, but enjoy the bed you've bought, and rest if just for a few hours."

It goes unspoken that he'd kill me if I tried anything funny, try to take anything or touch his boy. He doesn't offer the money back, I wouldn't have taken it anyway since we both knew he needed it more. But it's not the bed he's promising. He's telling me he's not gonna fuck me over, he's not gonna try to steal my wallet and my truck while I sleep, or use his kid as a guilt trip for a free ride to Nelson Fort. He can't give me anything more than that, but it's all he has.

"Yeah, all right." I say. It would be rude to refuse.

Harry nods, and the emeralds turn away from me back to his cub. He takes off his jacket, and lies beside his boy. He doesn't even take off his boots. Teddy's ear flickers and he turns to Harry, his little fingers clutch at the man's shirt and his hair darkens to glossy black like daddy's.

"Shh," Harry hushes as he gently rubs his back and settles down, facing towards me and the door. He doesn't fall asleep.

So I get ready for bed with the feeling of green eyes watching me. I don't blame him, I wouldn't trust a single fucker either if it came to my kid.

I lie down on my bed, and close my eyes.

"Goodnight," Harry murmurs.

"Night," I grunt.

I can hear them breathing only ten feet away. Two heart beats, one small and calm, the other large and strong and steady. It takes a few hours more before Harry's pulse slows, finally allowing himself to fall asleep when he knows nothing is gonna harm his baby.

I fall asleep, and for the first time in a long time, I dream. I don't remember much in the morning, other than a lullaby and the shining of the moon.

* * *

The lullaby Harry sings has the same melody as Hush Little Baby, but I thought it sweeter to go with The Moon Sees Me with all of Remus' ties with the moon.

As always, tell me what you like, what you don't like, and what I can improve. Please stop telling me to update.


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